


The Price Not Paid

by Esteliel



Series: The Gorbeau House Deal [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Blow Jobs, Cudgel Porn, Dubious Consent, Felching, Forced Masturbation, M/M, Object Insertion, Rimming, washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of the barricades, after they return to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, Javert does not leave. There is still a debt open between them after Valjean left him chained to a bed in the Gorbeau hovel ten years ago. This time, Javert is intent on collecting that debt, and to take everything from Valjean that was denied him before. What is one more sin when he already knows himself damned, after all?</p>
<p>It does not quite go as he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price Not Paid

Javert had not offered to wait outside. The thought had arisen briefly: allow Valjean to go in, then turn and leave, and – do what?

There was not much left to do now for a man like him. He could face that decision without flinching back. It would be a very simple thing to do, he thought. But first, there were a few more matters that needed his attention. A letter to write. And this man. This frustrating man, this convict whose deeds were those of a saint. This man whom Javert still remembered on his knees, lips stretched wide around his prick, looking up at him not with hate or fear, despite the ignominy of the act, but with a strange, soft heat in his eyes. That man who had swallowed all he had to give, breathed and licked around him in ways that even ten years later haunted his dreams, who had been hard, _hard_ , from such a thing! Who had pressed himself against his cudgel with a low groan and trembled, his brow damp with sweat, his lips red and swollen, his eyes shadowed by his lashes...

That man, that terrible man who had haunted the nightmares that for a decade had made him wake with shamefully soiled sheets, was now in his grasp once more. 

“I consider myself your prisoner,” Valjean had said, and Javert's face twisted into bitter amusement at the memory.

Yes. There was still unfinished business between them. Soon enough it would not matter anymore. He thought he had no choice but to let that man go; the law could no longer be trusted to guide him in this.

Well. If one could not trust the law to decide what was wrong and what was right, then perhaps he should trust in his body to know such a thing. The man had promised, after all. Had promised ten years ago, in the staircase of that hovel, with his sinful mouth and the hard curve of his prick.

This was a business that had haunted him for too long to leave unfinished, and so Javert followed Valjean inside.

There was a girl – a daughter, and how strange to think of Valjean living in happiness, while all Javert had were the tormenting dreams at night– 

He cut off that train of thought.

The girl left when Valjean talked of how they had returned the corpse to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire. How foolish to make her hope. But then, had he not allowed Valjean to fool him in similar ways?

He banished both girl and corpse from his mind after a moment. No, these things did not matter anymore. What mattered was this one final debt between them. Javert wanted to laugh with silent despair when Valjean simply stood there, now that the girl was gone. So eager to give up now, when before–

Javert forced that thought away as well.

“You need to wash,” he said, and Valjean, dazed, confused, obeyed without protest, even though he was moving very slowly now. 

Javert followed him into the bathroom. Silently, he watched as Valjean began to strip off the sewer-soaked clothes with trembling fingers, and then proceeded to wash himself with the cold water. There was no warm water in Toulon for a prisoner, Javert thought, and perhaps Valjean was right: such comforts should not matter to him anymore; he had already forfeited his right to them.

Valjean was strangely bashful for a man who had spent long years in the galleys. How many men had seen him stripped naked there? But here, when he pulled off his stained shirt, when he pushed down the filthy trousers that clung to his skin with cold, pale fingers, here he could not meet Javert's eyes as he stood before him, naked and trembling and ashamed.

“Go on,” Javert said, with more impatience than he felt. “Use soap. The sewer is still all over you.”

Valjean swallowed and reached out for a bar of pale soap. 

There was nothing seductive about it – except, perhaps, in the curve of that broad neck, in the way Valjean did not dare to meet his eyes even once, in the way his hands hesitated just long enough when they rubbed the lather down his stomach that Javert knew he was supposed to turn or to politely avert his eyes.

No. The time for politeness between them had long passed. He thought again of how Valjean's fingers had opened his trousers and gritted his teeth.

Valjean washed himself quickly. There was nothing seductive at all in the way he drew his soapy fingers over his cock with embarrassed speed. Javert did not look away, remembering how Valjean's prick had pressed against his trousers, ten years ago. He remembered how he had ordered him to open them, demanded to let him see.

Yes. This was a debt it had taken a long time to collect, but collect it he would. And why not, he thought again to himself, incongruous laughter rising up deep within him, why not? Why should not he, Javert, demand payment for that one moment in his life when he had lost control, when he had been foolish enough to allow this man to seduce control away from him–

Again he clamped down on the memory. Never again. He was in control now. He could withstand. It would not be for long, and then it would not matter anymore. With his debt paid, Valjean could go on to whatever happiness he had stolen from the law.

“Turn around,” he said. Valjean shivered. Javert wondered if he remembered the short, clipped orders of the men who had once set him to work like a beast. It was a thing one would not forget, he supposed.

“Now. Give me the soap.”

Valjean obeyed, shoulders tense, his eyes averted. That was all that mattered.

There was still the filth of the sewer on his back, where he could not reach. There were also the scars of his many years in Toulon, the deep furrows the lash had left.

Javert traced them with his hands. It was not quite curiosity, and not quite satisfaction, although he supposed there was something of both in the heat that rose within him. There was also that warm, prickling contentment of having caught his suspect at last. Yes. This had been his longest hunt. And now that it was nearly over, he allowed that tension to flow through him, basking in it for one final time.

Javert did not even pretend to wash him at first while he ran his fingers over that broad back, feeling the strong muscles tremble beneath his touch with both exhaustion and apprehension.

What was just? Javert could no longer say. But he thought that this was just: to make the man suffer now, in return for the ten years of suffering Javert had known.

He touched Valjean's scars and felt that strong man shiver and offer no resistance as his fingers took their fill, tracing the path of former indignities and shame. He had seen prisoners take the lash before. Javert tried to imagine it: this man tied to a pole, his strong back bared, red welts springing up, then the lines of blood at last, the tears in his eyes. 

The thought woke no pleasure now. No – and that was this man's fault too, who had given him a taste of other ways in which a man might humble himself. What was the pain and shame of the lash when Javert remembered the tears brimming in his eyes as his lips closed around his cock, as he swallowed his spend while meeting his eyes, so that for ten long years, Javert had been forced to take himself in hand, and remember those eyes, and imagine how they might look should he–

He shook his head, annoyed with himself. Time was short. There was no use in wasting it, now when he no longer had to conjure such nightmarish visions, since now Valjean stood before him, bare and obedient.

Javert washed his back. He did not linger on the task, although he filed away the way Valjean's muscles shifted beneath his skin, his breath hitching when Javert rubbed soapy fingers along the deepest scar, holding himself unnaturally still when Javert's fingers followed the line of his spine. Valjean's skin was clean here: he was able to reach this part of his back, and had washed away the filth that had clung to him. Javert scrubbed his fingers over the skin regardless. He did not touch his buttocks, but Valjean stood so still, breathed with such forced regularity, that he knew that Valjean felt his touch there, so determinedly above impropriety that it had to serve to him as a reminder of what could be: that all it would take would be for Javert's hands to sink but a fraction lower now.

Javert was breathing evenly when he put the soap away and said, “Turn.” 

Valjean turned. His eyes were wide, and his breathing had sped up a little. More important – more damning – was that below, between his legs, that prick had started to rise. Javert did not grant Valjean his dignity in this. Had he been granted dignity when Valjean had sunk to his knees, had lured him into giving up control for one fatal moment, had chained him to the bed? 

Javert looked at it. It was a pleasing size, surrounded by hair that had gone as silver as the hair on Valjean's head. Under his merciless gaze, that cock hardened more – still it was only half hard, but there was no denying what was happening to Valjean.

“Against the wall,” he said, and watched as Valjean shivered but obeyed without protest, even though that strong body had slowed with tiredness.

Javert followed. He stopped in front of Valjean, close enough that instinct made Valjean press himself against the wall. There was no fear in his eyes. They were dark and soft and tired. Was that apprehension? Sadness, Javert thought, then pushed that thought away as well.

It did not matter. There was a debt between them. 

Javert took hold of his cudgel once more. Valjean's eyes followed his movements, but the man offered no protest, not even when Javert raised the cudgel and pressed it slowly, deliberately, against Valjean's throat.

He felt Valjean swallow, his eyes widening a little.

“I believe there is still a debt open. Well then, I will collect it now.” Javert pushed the cudgel down harder. Not hard enough to cut off his air – but hard enough to make it uncomfortable. Hard enough to make it unmistakable that this time, he was in control. This time he would not be fooled.

Not that there was a reason to trick him this time, he thought, then pushed that thought away, out towards the river, where it belonged. Soon.

“Go on then. Show me what you had hidden in those trousers. Get it hard for me.”

Now Valjean groaned. The sound was very soft, but he could feel its vibrations run through the cudgel. Javert's pulse throbbed in answer between his legs. Not yet, he told himself again. Soon that would not matter.

Valjean's eyes were very wide. For a moment, he wondered if Valjean would beg. Mercy. Pity. Compassion. Was that not what he had preached?

But Valjean shivered and licked his lips and looked at him, blood rising to his cheeks as he lowered his hand, and he shivered again when he gingerly wrapped his fingers around that half-soft cock.

Valjean swallowed. 

“Is that what you want then?” He hesitated a moment, then nodded, and for a moment Javert thought he could see the weariness of whatever burden made those strong shoulders slump so. “Yes. That is fair.”

Valjean's hand began to move. Javert thought it should feel intimate, but instead it seemed embarrassing to watch another commit such a vulgar act. 

Valjean bit his lip. His chest was rising and falling more quickly now. Javert supposed that he would be able to feel his pulse flutter if he dropped his cudgel and curved his fingers around that strong neck. He did not.

Javert did not know where to look. It was strangely fascination to watch Valjean pull on himself and massage that prick to hardness, to watch the foreskin retreat and the crown of his prick flush with blood. His mind, used to file away all details for so many, long years, watched with detached curiosity just how Valjean touched himself, took in the thickness of him – wider than Javert's own prick, and he remembered again how wide Valjean's mouth had been forced to stretch around him, how Valjean had made nervous sounds, his eyes apprehensive; how he had made a small, choking sound when he tried to take more of him–

Javert ripped his eyes away from the sight. Watching Valjean's face was just as good: the way he made breathless little sounds, then bit his lip to keep them from escaping; the way his eyelashes fluttered half closed, so that he looked nearly bashful when he did something so shameless; the way he once again had the courage to meet Javert's eyes and let him look his fill. 

And there it was. The shame. The shame – and the heat. 

Javert did not know by what word to call it. He only knew that it was there: that Valjean's breath hitched, and not because he was stroking his prick to hardness, but because Javert was watching him doing such an obscene thing. Javert remembered that. He remembered all of it: Valjean on his knees before him, Valjean's lips wet and swollen, the shock in his eyes when Javert had spilled thick and bitter in his mouth – and the way Valjean had looked up at him as he swallowed. The way Valjean had spread his legs when he had nudged them with the cudgel. It was impossible to forget. There had been no night when Javert did not remember that ache within him to make Valjean open his trousers and bare his shame to him, and the need to watch that man jerk himself off, at his knees before him, holding his gaze, his mouth still full of Javert's spend.

He thought, even now, that Valjean would have done it. If Valjean had for one moment believed then that Javert would have truly let him go for that, he would have done it. 

Something about the memory made him furious. Javert could not say what it was. Maybe simply that it had not happened. 

It had been a transaction; it was as simple as that. Despite knowing how wrong it was, that it was not in his power to make a deal with criminals, that he was no judge, but a simple officer of the police, Javert had agreed to that transaction when he had allowed Valjean to do what he had done: when the sinful heat of that mouth on his cock had made him forget all that was just and right for a few fateful minutes. That had been wrong, but it had been a transaction nevertheless.

Only Valjean had never asked for his terms, and now Javert thought that this was what had been wrong about the deal. Valjean had perhaps thought that he had paid his price when he had taken Javert into his mouth, had swallowed what he had to give – but that was not what Javert would have asked for. That was too little, too easy. 

If Javert had allowed his own desires to shame him then, then it was only fair to demand to see Valjean's own shame in exchange.

“It is fair,” Javert said at last, watching how the shadow of those lashes shivered on Valjean's cheeks. “How does it feel?”

“Javert...” Valjean's voices trembled like the shadows. 

Distantly, Javert wondered if he could make the man cry. Something about the thought seemed distasteful, although he told himself that seeing him kneel and cry should be all the humiliation a man could want.

“Let me see,” Javert then said. “Show me how hard you are.” 

Again he wondered at himself. Why say these things? Maybe it was simply for the pleasure of the shudder that ran through Valjean, the way those eyes tried to slide away in shame – and yet Valjean forced himself to meet his eyes. Again Valjean forced himself to allow Javert to drink his fill of his shame. 

Why, Javert wondered once more. Why that. That was the one thing he had never demanded. The one reason he had never been able to forget...

Valjean's breathing was fast and loud in the silence of the room when he looked down at last to where he had brought himself to hardness. He slowly uncurled his fingers. With any other man, Javert would maybe have called that hesitancy shy. But a convict had no use for shyness, Javert reminded himself. And his man, who had licked the thick fluids of his release from his lips, had even less use for it.

“Come now. Show it off for me.”

Another shudder ran through Valjean. He gripped himself at the base and held his prick for Javert to look his fill, his legs spreading a little. Worse: he looked up again to meet Javert's eyes, and the flush on his cheeks increased. Still, he did not say a word, even when Javert looked down – even when Javert pulled the cudgel away, closed his hand around Valjean's throat, and pressed the cudgel to his hard prick instead.

Valjean moaned, his eyes fluttering closed for a second at the touch. Javert breathed deeply, but something seemed to constrict his chest. It was impossible to get enough air, and so he watched – lightheaded, disbelieving – as the polished wood of his cudgel pressed to that straight, hard prick. At the touch, Valjean groaned and seemed to simply surrender; Javert kept watching as Valjean's legs spread wider, his hips moving forward of their own accord, a desperate little jerk to rub himself against the gleaming, dark wood.

“Look at you,” Javert said, choking on the heat in his own voice. Where did it come from, this devilish lust that was now dripping from every word he spoke? Remember, Javert told himself. Remember what was then. Remember that this is your final chance to collect the debt.

Valjean's pulse fluttered against his fingers. Javert spread his fingers a little – was it a caress? It could not be.

To distract himself, he used his cudgel to inspect Valjean's balls, lifting them slightly, watching Valjean bear this too, only his breathing speeding up in reaction. Javert thought about how vulnerable he had to feel. He thought about what it would feel like to enclose them in his large hand and watch Valjean's face, and squeeze until Valjean would beg. 

The cudgel nudged Valjean's thighs – they spread wider still. Javert thought about nudging further back, easing the unforgiving wood into that sinful, yielding body. He wondered whether Valjean would yield to that too and watch him with shame and heat in his eyes, never wavering, never looking away even for a moment as Javert worked him open and–

He could not do it. He could not think it. There was something distasteful to it. He wanted...

Again he choked on a breath and returned the cudgel to Valjean's throat, perhaps as much to keep himself in check as Valjean.

“Look at you,” he said again, and although he supposed the words would be taken as derision, his fingers trembled slightly as he pressed them to the length that stood between Valjean's legs. 

Touching it was a shock. How could skin be so hot. How could skin be so thin and so vulnerable, and yet feel as hard as iron. How could–

He stroked him, and both of them groaned at the same time. Javert felt the ice within himself tremble. What if it shattered. What if he allowed himself to shatter – to shatter here at Valjean's feet, and–

He pushed that thought away as well. There was so little time left, and he was here; he had his cudgel at Valjean's throat. That old debt would finally be paid. This was not a time to waste on dreams.

“Now show me what you owe me. Touch yourself. Make yourself come,” he said. “Show me.”

Valjean groaned again. He did not speak. Why did he not speak – certainly any man, especially this man, had the right to protest at such treatment. But instead, Valjean just looked at him with shame in his eyes – those damning eyes that were so dark, filled with such heat despite the vulgar things Javert said – and did as he was told.

Valjean's breath was hot against his face as he began to work himself. He jerked on his hard prick with small tugs of his wrist that seemed awkward at first, unskilled–

“When was the last time you did this?” Javert asked. It was an insult, certainly. Any man would take such a question as humiliation – but it did not sound derisive to Javert's ears. Something within him clenched with shame or yearning, and he tightened his hand around Valjean's throat in response.

Valjean swallowed and flushed again, but did not look away. “I do not know, Javert. Maybe a month ago.”

Why did he answer these things! Did that man not know that it was wrong to ask such a thing of another, and an even greater wrong to encourage Javert in this madness by yielding to it?

“How do you not know? How– what did you think of? What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

Valjean's breath came faster now. His hand was still at work between their bodies. The sounds it made were obscene: flesh on flesh, and for a moment Javert wondered what it would sound like if he opened his trousers and Valjean wrapped his hand around the both of them. His hands had always been rough. Pruner hands. Convict hands. The hands of one who had carried a corpse all the way from the barricade–

Javert breathed deeply and shook off the thought. There was the first hint of anguish in Valjean's eyes, but he answered willingly enough with the shame burning like fever in his gaze. Javert thought it might be contagious. He thought that maybe he had already caught that sickness.

“Sometimes – often, that night. The taste of you. The way you felt on my tongue.”

Valjean bit his lip again, his hand speeding up a little, his breath hitching slightly as he kept staring shamelessly into Javert's eyes.

Yes, shamelessly, Javert told himself and swallowed. For one long moment he tried to pretend that it was not in truth he who was shameless by forcing Valjean to speak such a thing.

“I never – oh God, you will not believe me, Javert.”

Yes, Javert thought. Yes. Now those walls came crumbling down. Now that facade cracked. All of a sudden he was not certain anymore whether he could bear it to see this man stripped of his dignity.

There was a strange, soft desperation now in Valjean's voice. Still begging for his freedom, Javert told himself.

“You will not believe me. But that was the only time – the only time I ever...”

Valjean faltered and bit his lip, his fingers tightening until he moaned. “No one ever touched me, Javert. If you had touched me then... I would have let you. And I couldn't. Not for myself, but for Cosette. I am sorry.”

Sorry. _You old fool_ , Javert wanted to say, but all that escaped him was a heavy groan as he watched Valjean bring himself to completion. How strange he looked. For one moment, his face was turned into a grimace: his mouth slack, his eyes without focus, his release a wet splash on his chest.

_You old fool_ , Javert thought again, but then reached out – ah, God, when had he grown so hard himself? All he had wanted was to have an end to this: to finish this one open debt between them, so that he could go and make an end in peace.

Why did Valjean have to do this to him.

His cudgel had dropped to the floor. His hands curved large and heavy around Valjean's bare shoulders.

He pushed him around. There was no resistance when he made Valjean face the wall. Of course there was not; of course Valjean wouldn't–

Javert opened his trousers. He was fully erect. His need seemed distasteful to him, but something would not let him leave, and how better to exorcise this need than this? There would be no way back after this. Just the river.

He had only spit to ease the entrance, but he went carefully, and although Valjean was tense, he was still relaxed from his own release. It was enough to slowly work his way inside and feel Valjean's heat. It surrounded him, clinging to him with a strange vulnerability that made him tremble. Deep inside Javert where there was only dead wood, something now cracked open, wider and wider with each shallow thrust and every hitched breath he drew from Valjean. At last he was fully buried inside him and he rested his brow against that strong neck, unable to keep back the tears that began to fall although he could not understand where they came from. Everything inside him was withered and dry.

He wept as he moved within him. He wept silently, but his tears fell onto Valjean's back, and still he could not stop. It was too good: the tight grip of Valjean's body, the heat, to be so impossibly close – to tremble against his skin and feel the echo of his heartbeat against his chest... 

He had not known that it was possible to be so close to another, to feel their breathing and their moans and their heartbeat as his own. And yet, soon they would have to part and Javert would have to leave, and then he would have to make certain that no one would ever make this man suffer again.

It was wrong to demand this price of Valjean. Javert was wrong to make him suffer once more. But then, he now knew that he had been wrong for a very long time. One more time would make no difference. He would be selfish in this and take this prize with him to the bottom of the river.

Valjean did not speak. Javert wondered if it had hurt him – but certainly Valjean would have said something then. Certainly he would have–

But in the end, this was but another deal, Javert reminded himself. Who knew what deal Valjean thought he was making, for he had not once offered resistance since Javert had followed him inside. He had given him everything: his answers, his obedience, his dignity. Even this, even his body.

All wasted on him. All of this wasted.

Javert tightened his hands around Valjean's shoulders for a moment, growing breathless at the flexing of the muscles beneath and the way Valjean remained motionless and pliant, willing to let him have his fill of his body. 

Pleasure was like opium, moving through his veins with the sticky heaviness of honey. It could not undo the grief and the pain that was at the heart of him, but the deeper he slid into Valjean, the easier it became to move within him, to find that somehow, somewhere inside the heat of this man was a space where he fit perfectly, where his cock rubbed against him until he trembled and Valjean, too, despite his release, was breathing heavily.

It did not make anything easier, but for long, precious minutes, even though his tears kept dripping onto Valjean's skin, Javert found himself overwhelmed once more by that terrible need that had once cost him an escaped convict and his self-respect. This time, there was no price to pay. No price but for the convict's respect – but that would not matter soon enough.

He dropped his head against Valjean's shoulder. There were still tears in his eyes, but now there was also the wave of his release that overwhelmed all thought. Pleasure came pouring out from him, and he pressed his moans into Valjean's skin like a brand, shameless now. A distasteful, possessive lust made him shudder as he imagined it, even as he spilled himself: spurt after spurt of his warm spend filling the inside of this man, still dripping out of him after he pulled out. And it would still drip out of him, warm and thick and obscene as it ran down those strong thighs when Javert would stand at the river...

He shuddered and watched himself slip from Valjean after a long moment. How much time had passed? He could not say. Valjean was still quiet and tense, and Javert's prick was limp, wet with his own fluids. Javert shuddered again as he looked at himself, soft and pathetic. His hands slid down Valjean's back. Now was the time to turn and leave, he told himself. Now was the time...

He dropped to his knees. He held back a sob. Valjean's hole looked sore: loose and swollen and red, Javert's spend dripping from him. He had done that. He had done that to Valjean. He should–

He pressed his mouth to Valjean's skin and licked up one of the trails of come. Valjean shivered and made a small sound when Javert's tongue touched the reddened muscle. Experimentally, Javert pressed his tongue to it again; the skin was hot and swollen. A gasp escaped Valjean; another trickle of thick, white fluid ran out of him, and Javert lapped at it while Valjean's hole clenched.

Emboldened, he used his hands to hold his buttocks open, then his thumbs to spread the sore, resisting muscle. The sound that escaped Valjean at this was one of discomfort; Javert ignored it and lapped at the spend that slowly kept trickling out. It was a filthy, messy thing – he could not stop. He pressed his lips to the sore hole; slowly, languidly, he fucked him open with his tongue, until Valjean trembled around him and he could slide his tongue inside easily. The sounds it made were obscene, wet and filthy, and he could not stop. 

Javert could not even say how long he had done such a thing, only at last Valjean seemed to be moaning from every slow, deliberate slide of his tongue. He had relaxed enough that it was hard to resist the need to open him up with his fingers instead and explore how he felt from the inside, to see how much he could be made to stretch.

This time, he pressed his cudgel to Valjean's hole. The sound Valjean made was a soft, nervous whine caught in his throat, but he was so slick with Javert's spit and loose from the long, slow coaxing of his tongue that the tip of his cudgel slid in nevertheless. Valjean drew in a deep, frightened breath. 

Now he would resist; now he would speak, Javert thought. He slid the cudgel in another fraction, and Valjean gasped again and arched. Strong muscles flexed beneath his skin as he shuddered, and then he turned around. There was fear on his his face now, but nevertheless his legs slid wider apart, opening himself up to Javert in all his vulnerability.

Javert groaned. He could not look away as the reddened muscle swallowed more and more of the black wood, tensing and spreading for it until he could touch the thin, stretched skin with his tongue and lick around it. Eagerly, he lapped at it again and again, hungry for more of the helpless sounds that escaped Valjean, slickening him further to help work the rigid cudgel deeper and deeper.

With a shock, he realized after long, long moments that Valjean was hard, his prick jerking every time Javert twisted the cudgel in him just so. The rigid wood had been forced in deeper than his own prick had gone; Valjean had taken half the length of his cudgel into his body and was breathing heavily, every breath half moan, half fearful whimper as he tensed and relaxed and tensed again. The swollen muscle trembled around the girth of the cudgel, so red and sore that another sudden jolt of lust flashed through Javert at the thought that Valjean would feel this for days to come. Even when the river had carried away his body, when Valjean had washed his come out of his aching hole, Javert thought that the pain of penetration might remain with him for days, so that Valjean would remember with every step the unforgiving rigidity of the hard wood he had fucked him with.

Javert groaned. He pulled the cudgel out a little. “Fuck yourself on it,” he commanded.

A shudder went through Valjean. Javert could see the reddened muscle clench around his cudgel. He pressed against it, changed its angle slightly, and Valjean choked on a moan. A shiver ran though him, and then he rested his hands against the wall and – oh God – worked himself open on the unforgiving wood, his tense body clinging to the polished surface of the cudgel even as he moaned breathlessly and rode it, legs trembling.

“Yes,” Javert said. “Yes. Christ! Like that.”

He could not breathe. He could not – he reached down and rubbed himself almost angrily, already hard again and still slick with his own come. With a moan he watched Valjean's prick jerk and produce another drop of sticky fluid. He held on to his cudgel, twisted it again so that as Valjean bore down on it with another groan, it pressed right against the spot inside him that made his prick throb and another bead of white fluid well up. It slowly began to drip down the swollen crown, and just in time, Javert leaned forward with a soundless groan and touched his tongue to it, lapping it up before it could drip to the floor.

It drew another whimper from Valjean. The strong, powerful body above him jerked and shuddered, as though Valjean did not know whether to thrust back onto the cudgel or push himself into Javert's mouth. Javert moaned hungrily at the sight and then leaned forward again almost in despair. The sound Valjean made when he drew him into his mouth was beautiful: a helpless moan even the impalement on the cudgel had not forced from him so far, and the thick, warm cock jerked on his tongue. It felt strangely alive, painting the bitter taste of Valjean's spend across his tongue and the inside of his cheek after he had tentatively pressed his tongue to it. 

He could not even feel shame now. Javert's cheeks hollowed as he sucked noisily, messily, while Valjean made an anguished sound as he fucked himself on the hard, unyielding cudgel, pushing back to feel it slowly slide deep into his stretched hole, then thrusting forward into the heat of Javert's mouth while the slight drag of the hard wood inside him made him tense and tremble.

It was overwhelming. There had been nights – long, sleepless, desperate nights – when Javert had lain awake for long hours and touched himself, dreaming of humiliating and terrible things to do to this man who had sucked his cock with such hot shame in his eyes and then betrayed him.

Nothing had ever been as good as this. Nothing had ever been as good as seeing Valjean trapped between pleasure, working his sore body to exhaustion as he fucked his stretched, come-slick hole on Javert's cudgel in a way even Javert's most degrading fantasies had never dared to show him. Again and again Valjean's thick, hard prick slid into Javert's mouth, and Javert could not hold back his eager, muffled moans of need even as he steadied the cudgel and felt the tremors as Valjean clenched helplessly around it.

It was all wrong; it was all too much, too intense, and he could not have stopped for anything. For one long, blessed moment he could not even hear the call of the waters as his mouth was flooded with the salt of Valjean. He swallowed his bitter release instead of the hemlock, twisting the hard cudgel cruelly in order to keep Valjean moaning endlessly, and Valjean shuddered and shook as if it were torment instead of unbearable pleasure drawn out too long.

It had to end, eventually, and it did. Carefully, Javert eased out the cudgel, feeling sick and deflated now that the heat of his need had fled. Valjean's release was a bitter, strangely slimy thing in his mouth. He thought again of Valjean on his knees before him and how he had looked at him, so full of shame, and how Valjean had swallowed it deliberately, giving him his submission in everything, although Javert had asked for nothing.

Now that the heat was gone, it had become harder to cling to that false belief that there was justice in this.

Javert licked at his lips. He made himself drop the cudgel to the floor and tried not to think of how sore Valjean's hole had to be, and of how deep he would be able to slide his tongue inside now to taste his heat, the bitterness of his own spend coating the tender sore walls, the earthiness of Valjean himself.

Even now, he wanted it. To lick into him for hours, to use his tongue and lips to give ease and pleasure when that had never been something he had thought he would one day do– 

Maybe that was what he should have done, he thought dizzily, still on his knees, which was perhaps where he belonged. Maybe that choice had been there after all: to allow himself to shatter here at this man's feet and pay penance in whatever way he could; to right an old wrong by teaching his mouth to be pleasing – to please this man who deserved to know what it felt like to fill Javert's mouth with his prick.

Would that not have been fair? Had not Valjean earned the right now to watch Javert's eyes as Javert tasted his cock, as he sucked it, loved it, pleasured it? Should not Javert too have looked at Valjean as he swallowed his spend, giving his vulnerability in turn – his apology, perhaps, if such a thing were possible, if Javert did not already know that he was damned, and that even offering Javert compassion was a thing that should not be done?

How sweet and sad that thought was: to allow himself to shatter here at this man's feet, to wash these feet with his tears and dry them with his hair and allow himself to be raised and kissed and anointed with this man's kiss to his brow.

How sweet. How wrong. His was the bitterness of Valjean's spend in his mouth and his tears on his cheeks. His was the bitterness of damnation and eternal darkness, and even so, he thought again of how sweet it would be to dream of what could have been in that last, weightless moment before he would sink and rid the world of one further mistake.

After a long moment he managed to stand. Valjean stood with his hands still against the wall, supporting his trembling body, and Javert looked on him with shame. There were no words to express what he wanted to say. But then, he supposed that Valjean would know what was most important, which was that the deal was finally completed – that Javert had demanded a higher price in return than he had any right to – but that at last, it was done. 

“Go to sleep, Valjean,” he finally said. His voice sounded strange. When before he had spoken without emotion, now his voice was strangely rough, as though he had not swallowed the thick, bitter fluids of Valjean's release but instead the broken shards of whatever had splintered apart inside him. 

“Yes. Sleep. Don't look at my like that, not anymore, I... It is over now. Do you understand me? I say it is over. You have paid your price in full. I will not return, Jean Valjean.”

He took one slow, trembling step, then another. He was vaguely astonished that his legs carried him when he could not feel them. He could not feel anything. Good, he thought again. He would not mind pain; he had known pain, but certainly this would only make it easier.

“What do you mean?” Suddenly, Valjean was beside him once more, still naked and flushed, sweat drying on his skin. Javert felt the painful rise of shame within him at the thought that he had made Valjean come after him, when Valjean had to be so sore that every stepped ached deep within.

Valjean took hold of his arm. Javert refused to look at him. Valjean took hold of his face then, curving his hand around his chin to raise his head, gentle but determined. Again Javert felt shame, for Valjean had never looked away from him. 

“What do you mean?” Valjean said again, and then looked into Javert's eyes for a long time. Javert let him. 

What was there to see? Shame, he supposed. He hoped it was shame. Valjean certainly deserved to see that. Apart from shame, there could not be much. Emptiness, maybe. The ragged splinters of what remained of the strange iron-cold thing that had once filled him: a brittle armor, like the outer skeleton of an insect, that had eroded and broken away. Perhaps that was all that could be seen: that without the iron immutability that had held him upright and forced him onward for all of his life, there was nothing left, and he would simply crumble away and be nothing now.

Valjean studied him. There was still that strange heat in his eyes, but no shame. 

No. Javert did not know what he saw, but he supposed it did not matter.

“I see,” Valjean said at last. And then, surprisingly, “No. No, Javert, the price is not paid.”

Javert could only stare in dumbfounded silence. What did he mean? Javert had taken everything. Javert had left him nothing. What more was there to demand from Valjean?

Valjean's eyes were not gentle. They could not be, Javert supposed, after what had just passed between them. He wanted to look away again, but he found he could not. One of Valjean's fingers reached out and touched his lips, wiping at something – a smudge of his spend, he supposed. Would Valjean be glad to have at least a memory of Javert's own abasement?

Then there was Valjean's other hand, taking something from his pocket. It was too terrible and too beautiful, so in his despair he simply laughed as Valjean used his own pair of handcuffs to cuff him to his bed.

“Please,” Javert said at last, when he could speak again. “Please. I did not beg then, but I will beg now. Please, let me go. No one will ever come after you again once I am gone. You have my promise.”

“No,” Valjean said and shook his head. His eyes were dark and unreadable, and he was still holding Javert's gaze, refusing to look away. And so, maybe out of spite, it was Javert who dropped his gaze, refusing Valjean that chance to drink his fill of Javert's own shame.

“No, Javert, the price is not paid. When it is paid, you may go. Perhaps it will be tomorrow. Perhaps not. But you will not go until it is paid in full.”

Javert trembled, and later that night, he wept again. When Valjean touched him, he parted his legs and allowed Valjean inside – but that, too was not the price Valjean demanded, although his gentleness and carefulness was torment enough that Javert thought in despair that it should make up for all of his sins.

Perhaps nothing ever would. Perhaps this was hell. 

Perhaps this was heaven, and Valjean was too blind to recognize that he had taken a demon into his house. All Javert could do was weep when they touched, and think with yearning of the river's embrace he had never known. 

It would have been cold. It would have been cold, and Valjean's embrace was so warm. 

Everything was wrong.


End file.
